


I am too alone in this world (but not yet alone enough)

by asuralucier



Series: The Book of Hours [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Conflicted!Winston, Ex hooker!John Wick, John can't have nice things, M/M, Pining, Useless!High Table, bad pain management, brief mentions of John getting around, but there are plenty of feelings, despite this this is not a lot of porn, does not take into account JW3, please don't try this at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: John thinks about reminding Winston that he’d been a whore long before he’d been roped into becoming an assassin who spoke broken Russian but perfect French. Whores have rules too, and John is good about rules most of the time. The thing about rules is that they sometimes change and require adjustment. It’s not so out of the ordinary, in John’s opinion, to want to find that weird loophole or two that would allow him to get his dick wet.Seven years later, things don’t change. And when they do, it’s never in the way you want them to.(Part two of what’s become a spectacularly self-indulgent canon divergent AU starring John Wick as a former hooker who now works for Viggo Tarasov. Please read partonefirst, if you haven’t already.)





	I am too alone in this world (but not yet alone enough)

**Author's Note:**

> Back in April, I wrote Hooker!John Wick. And then it sort of ate my brain and I wrote parts two and three in one weekend. Part three forthcoming in a week after it goes through final edits. Enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to flowerdeluce for being the best cheer reader ever. x

“Isn’t she a beauty?” 

Aurelio is preening in front of him like he’s showing off a new girlfriend. But what he’s actually fawning over is a ‘69 Ford Mustang, glinting with a fresh coat of paint. 

“I’d be more interested in how she handles.” John holds out his hands for the keys. 

Aurelio fixes him with a smug kind of look. “Who said it was for you?” 

“Because if it’s for Iosef Tarasov then I might kill him myself?” 

The whole of the chop shop had been buzzing with activity, but at John’s pronouncement that he was going to kill Viggo Tarasov’s firstborn over a car, the room goes dead quiet. 

“Hey, hey.” Aurelio slings an arm around John’s shoulders and John gets hit with a strong whiff of engine oil, then the cloying smell of Aurelio’s preferred smokes, which Winston had opined once were not very good. “Relax, Johnny, Jesus.” He lowers his voice and leans in next to John’s ear, “It’s not, okay? It’s for him. It’s for Wednesday.” 

“You mean Winston.” John is quick to correct him. “Winston wants this car.” 

“Wednesday, Winston. What’s the difference? Except one won’t fuck you and the other one will.” 

“And they both want to,” John says blackly. 

“Okay. I didn’t need to know that.”

John Wick is thirty-eight. It’s been about seven years since he has come under the employ of Viggo Tarasov after killing one of his men under fairly dubious circumstances, but he does good work for the man and is in turn paid handsomely. The only thing that he is sometimes unhappy about in his life is the irritable presence of twenty-year-old Iosef Tarasov. Iosef is nothing like his old man. Viggo is at least reasonable after two vodkas. 

“Hey, _Johnnik_.” Iosef struts up to his table and leans in with no regard for John’s personal space. “Dad says you have to drive up to Rochester with me this weekend to collect some debts.” 

“Viggo hasn’t informed me that that’s what I’ll be doing. Until I hear otherwise I already have plans this weekend.” 

A vein throbs violently in Iosef’s temple. “When he gets here he _will_ tell you.” 

John shrugs, “Okay.” He’s unarmed, but that doesn’t mean he still can’t do Iosef serious damage. The bar isn’t crowded, but there’s a tense silence that’s settled at the other tables. They’re all Viggo’s men, one way or the other, and John knows that if anything happens, most of the bullets will be flying his way. It’s probably too much to hope that a stray shot lodges itself into Iosef’s peripheral lobe. 

“When your father gets here, Iosef, do tell him I fancy a word too, won't you?” says a voice behind them and John suppresses the urge smirk at the kid like he’s _won_. Because he hasn’t really, every time he has the occasion to hear Winston’s voice and be in his presence John is also reminded of other things. Not least how things might have gone. 

John is a practical man, of course, who has to take a lot of things into consideration. He doesn’t need much from Winston. Not commitment, not a promise of exclusivity because John doesn’t think he can live like that either, but some form of acknowledgement, even the smallest crumb -- would have been nice. 

Not that any of it has been forthcoming. 

“Hello, Jonathan, didn’t know you’d be here.” 

“You must be having an off day.” 

Winston calls him Jonathan, just like how John doesn’t call him Wednesday, as a reminder that they are two different people. That the circumstances and the lingering desires that once brought them together in a fleabag motel have no place in the lives they are leading now. 

“Someone is in a mood.” 

John rolls his eyes and downs his drink. Usually, he is glad enough to see Winston, but if the man reminds him one more time to watch how it looks, he might go and steal Winston’s fancy new car from Aurelio’s garage and drive it off a fucking cliff. 

“It’s been a long day.” John stills himself. “But I am looking forward to the weekend. Taking the car out.” 

Winston says, “Ah.” Then he seems to catch on and he slides into the vacant stool next to John and very nearly touches him. “I’ll see if the restaurant can’t pack us something for lunch. It’s good you reminded me.” 

Iosef’s red face is putting John in better spirits already. 

John collects the Mustang to save Winston a trip to the chop shop and Aurelio passes him the keys with a telling smirk. “Sure you don’t want to bring your date some flowers?” 

“Fuck you,” John says. Though it’s hard to imbue that with any real malice. The sun is out; it is practically a cloudless sky, and most importantly, so far John hasn’t yet received any communication from Winston revoking their impromptu plans. John is even allowing himself to wear a t-shirt, but not the one with the Warhol because. Well, he isn’t suicidal, for one thing. It’s too warm for a coat, otherwise he would have worn one.

“I feel overdressed,” Winston says as he slides into the passenger’s seat. 

“I like what you’re wearing.” Winston is wearing what John has come to know as a linen suit. He’s still not any good at telling between cuts or knowing the difference between cashmere wool or whatever the fuck other kind of wool, but John can’t help but pay attention to what Winston is wearing. 

“Why do you want this car?” 

Winston gives him a sidelong glance, “So he told you, did he?” 

“He was my friend first, although he owes you,” John says, deciding that he is owed some semblance of leeway. Assuming Winston hasn’t bugged his own car, John is freer here than he has been in years. 

Winston says, “Aurelio owes me nothing. Well, except to mind his chop shop with care and reasonable skill in line with industry standards.” 

“He’s always liked cars. I don’t see how that’d be a problem.” 

Winston waits a minute, and then he says, “You don’t owe me anything either, Jonathan.” 

“Does that mean we can fuck again?” The question comes out before John can give it due diligence. 

“Jonathan, you’re no fool. Don’t start acting like one.” 

John thinks about reminding Winston that he’d been a whore long before he’d been roped into becoming an assassin who spoke broken Russian but perfect French. Whores have rules too, and John is good about rules most of the time. The thing about rules is that they sometimes change and require adjustment. It’s not so out of the ordinary, in John’s opinion, to want to find that weird loophole or two that would allow him to get his dick wet.

“And you’re a good fuck. Don’t read too much into it. I just miss it sometimes.” That might have come out better. But it’s out now. 

For a long time, Winston doesn’t speak. Then he says, “Don’t tell me Viggo is still threatening to cut your cock off.” 

“We’re way past that,” John assures him. 

John doesn’t really have a plan, outside of not driving with Iosef Tarasov up to Rochester to collect on debts that probably don’t even exist. But it seems that Winston doesn’t really have a plan either, so sometime during the mid-afternoon, they end up in Historic Richmond Town in Staten Island. 

John’s not much for history, except for the traces of the past that immediately linger. Like the dull pain of a recent bullet wound above his ankle that is making him limp. He’s also sporting a few other recently closed up wounds and nicks, but they are nothing of consequence. 

“ -- Where is that from?” 

Trust Winston to notice.

“Prague. it’s not a big deal. I’m medicated.” John extracts a pill bottle from his person, and Winston holds out his hand. Feeling twenty years younger than he is, as if he has suddenly being caught out by a figure of authority, John complies. It’s been some time since Winston has directly ordered John to do anything, but his reaction is groinal and quick and the man is only asking to see his medication. John has the feeling that he will always owe Winston, but not in the way Winston thinks. 

“...Don’t enjoy that too much,” Winston says, equal parts affection and something else. “How do you feel anything on these?” 

“I don’t feel anything,” John says. And he realizes how petulant that sounds and adds, “I need them. Please give them back.” 

Winston does, and the rest of the day is _nice_. Nobody shoots at them or starts anything. And as long as John doesn’t mention the possibility of fucking, Winston’s demeanor is pleasant and even friendly. 

Winston confides in John that it’s been a while since he has been out and about and not on business, and it really is a refreshing change of scene. The restaurant has spared no expense and packed them fresh crusty bread, foie gras, some variety of herb butter, charcuterie, and a selection of cheese. They eat in companionable silence after wandering about the botanic gardens, which are nearby, and avail themselves to the privacy of the seating outside the visitors’ center. It’s a lovely, quiet day. John so rarely gets to have quiet days. He doesn’t have the patience for them. 

“Have you been busy?” 

“Here and there,” Winston intones vaguely. “Not as busy as you, I’d imagine. I hear you’re in high demand ever since that incident with the pencil. Everyone wants a piece of the Baba Yaga.”

“I told Viggo I didn’t want a damn nickname.” 

“It travels well,” Winston says. “Very catching and full of fear. Like a virus.” 

John flashes back to a moment in a crowded nightclub in Astana, where he’d driven a pencil -- oddly the only remotely sharp object available to him at the time -- through a man’s ear. “Would you like to know something else about the pencil?” 

“Why not.” 

“I broke it before I shoved it in the fucker.” John grins. “Both of his fucking eardrums. Then I recycled twice. Okay, two things.” 

Winston stretches out his hand, and for a moment, John thinks to grab it so that the man doesn’t have a choice but to touch him. But then Winston says, “I do like it when you show off, Jonathan. You’re good at what you do. I always knew you would be.” 

It’s early evening when they finally drive back into the city. The timing coincides with the flow of after work traffic. It’s slow going, but John isn’t about to complain. It’s more time with Winston, after all. 

“Today’s my birthday,” Winston says finally, like he’s been thinking about it for a very long time. 

John stills. “Really. No joke.” 

“Thought you might say that,” Winston smiles thinly. “Do you remember yours?” 

John reaches back, and then he shrugs, “Just about. It’s never been on my mind, much. I’d rather hear about yours.” 

“Yes, I thought I’d treat myself to a car, indulge in a midlife crisis. I’m sixty this year, Jonathan.” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re having a late-life crisis. If you’re sixty.” 

“I’m almost certain no such thing exists.” 

John claps a hand on Winston’s shoulder, willing it to be friendly and not anything else. “Happy birthday.” 

Winston stares at his hand for a long moment, as if coming to terms to something. Then he takes John’s hand and presses his mouth against John’s knuckles. John doesn’t dare move or even breathe, “Thank you, Jonathan, I had a wonderful time.” 

The fact that Marcus is recently semi-retired as a contract killer for the Colombians and is only now dipping his toe into freelance means that he has a lot of free time. They’ve become friendly, over the years. John comes clean about the hooker thing about three years ago, after he and Marcus nearly die next to each other in a ditch in Argentina. It’d felt good to tell the truth to someone. 

Naturally, Marcus asks him for a fuck, and they don’t leave a room for a straight seventy-two hours, mostly fuelled by the adrenaline of being alive than anything close to good sense. After, they never mention it again and it takes Marcus about a week to recover. 

“Hey, John. You look wrecked,” Marcus opines, stating a fact and not unkindly. 

“I’m on a lot of pills,” John returns, because why lie? “Do you want to come out with me?” 

Marcus thinks. “How much fun are you going to be when you’re on a shit ton of pills? You’re not dying on my watch. The big man upstairs would have my balls.” 

“I can be fun,” John protests. And then he peers closer and realizes that Marcus is already probably having a certain sort of fun. His hair is mussed and his clothes are wrinkled in a telltale way that is not unfamiliar to John. Sort of. 

“Well, come in if you want. Her name is. Lilly. Milly. Something. She takes a lot. There’s also other stuff but you’re not allowed near them.” 

Marcus is too _conscientious_ towards John for him to forget anything in the end. His veins still buzzing from the light press of Winston’s mouth than anything else that has transpired tonight, John decides to stick to a bad decision. He wants to make one and he wants to make one _right_ and not do things fucking half-assed. 

“ _Johnnik_?” 

“Iosef,” John says. “Did you drive up to Rochester today?” 

He can hear Iosef grinding his teeth. “What do you want?” 

“I’m in a mood. Maybe I want to bury the hatchet. Where are you?” 

John can do a lot of things, but he isn’t _twenty_. Like the way Winston is sixty and he’s bought himself a Mustang. Or had someone steal it, John isn’t too clear on the details. He meets Iosef and his group of youngish cronies at a bar and shoots vodka to get into the mindset. He finds himself admiring the way young people tear into the world, and the way they destroy things without thinking about what comes next. 

And later, to prove a point, John presses Iosef’s hands above his head and tells the kid not to move. And John slides down, remembering that he used to like learning what other people like and that Winston was a rarity in John’s former line of work. He’d actually liked the guy as a whole and not just bits of him for an hour or two or whatever. But John knows not to think about it any deeper. He knows that Winston would prefer him not think at all. 

“Oh Jesus _Christ_.” Iosef’s eyes fly open as John takes him all the way in and hums, as the kid hits the back of his throat. It’s not that hard to do, as Iosef is, exceedingly average. And the kid, like anyone else, comes too quickly and some of his semen goes up John’s nose.

The next day, John hurts in various places. He wakes up in Iosef’s pigsty of an apartment and finds that he has missed several calls from Viggo Tarasov. Fucking great. 

“Viggo call you yet?” John pokes the lump on the bed. 

“ _Otvali_ ,” Iosef mumbles. “What did we do last night? My head is killing me.” 

“Just your head? Quite a number of things,” John deadpans. He decides he regrets exactly two thirds of those things. “I’ll put on some coffee before I leave.” 

“Don’t think I have any.” 

John doesn’t bother looking through Iosef’s kitchen. 

John rings Winston on the way to see Viggo. The man’s cell phone is dead, not even going to voicemail, but Winston has told him that he periodically turns off his voicemail for some peace and quiet. 

The restaurant isn’t open, but John goes in through the back and Kirill pats him down and asks him to leave his guns, as usual. Then he claps John on the shoulder, “I don’t know what you did, but um.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing, just. Good luck.” 

Viggo asks him to close the door to the office space and doesn’t offer John tea or coffee. He cuts to the chase. “What the fuck were you doing last night?” 

_Your son. About eight times. It’s actually impressive. He probably won’t be able to sit down or shit properly for the time being._ John clears his throat, “...I did run into Iosef last night.” 

“And?”

“And we had a few drinks. Some of his friends joined us. I don’t know their names.” 

Viggo says, “Do you remember trying to gauge out a man’s eyes with a fork?” 

John has to think. He likely remembers more than Iosef does but his memory is patchy at best. “Me personally? I don’t recall. We did drive someone to the ER.” 

Viggo glares at him, “Neither my son, nor his idiot no-brained friends have the creative wherewithal to do anyone bodily harm with culinary utensils. The man you injured was Behar Shala.” 

“I don’t know the name.” 

“Shala was a top enforcer for the Albanians. You know, the same Albanians that we’ve been negotiating with for months. He’ll need reconstructive eye socket surgery.” 

“I’ll pay for it?” John tries. “Didn’t even know that was a thing.” 

Viggo sucks in a deep breath. “Better. You’ll work for them for six months. And you won’t be paid. Your first job starts after you leave here, in Detroit.” 

“That seems excessive,” John says, but he already has a feeling he doesn’t have much of a choice in this matter. 

Then his phone rings. It’s the Continental’s general line. “...Hang on.” John gets up and leaves Viggo’s office, closing the door behind him. Kirill is still there, reading a paper but in reality watching John’s every move. 

“Mr. Wick.” 

“Charon?” It’s rare that the concierge of the Continental would call him. In fact, John doesn’t think Charon has ever rang him. 

“I’m sorry to bother you. But I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. Winston has gone missing.” 

John’s blood goes cold. “What do you mean missing?” 

“I mean his absence is prolonged and profound. Members of the High Table are present here now and they are asking after your involvement.” 

“I,” John swallows. “I’ll be right there. Okay? I’ll leave Viggo’s restaurant and be right there.” 

Fun fact: John Wick was once nominated for a seat on the High Table. He would have been one of the most junior members. Not the youngest, but certainly the most fresh. But in the end, the nomination had been withdrawn by just a few votes. If John does the math, he can just about figure out who has it in for him, but he does try to be graceful. He is less graceful about exiting Viggo’s restaurant, with the man swearing after him and telling him to find another job. 

John is pretty sure Viggo is just blowing off steam. It was something else that Winston had said once, that the Tarasovs are a hotheaded bunch but they are also mostly hot air. 

Thinking of Winston, John’s grip tightens on the wheel. Since Charon hasn’t given him specific instructions not to, he swings by Marcus’s apartment and finds the man just shrugging on his coat. Marcus is also looking very much worse for wear and _his age_ and usually John would let him have it, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Marcus is desperately inhaling from the dregs of a fruit smoothie, as if that’s going to help. 

“I just heard,” Marcus says, his face grim. 

“I was just with him yesterday. We had foie gras,” John says. 

“Every time I have foie gras I have a moral crisis.” Marcus lights a cigarette. He passes it over to John, who doesn’t smoke much, but now is a hell of a time to make an exception.

“Really.” 

“No, I was trying to provoke you.” 

John gives him a long look, and then remembers that he hasn’t yet popped any pills today. He passes back the cigarette after he has inhaled from it and swallows two tablets dry. 

“He’s tough,” Marcus says, as if John needs reminding. “He’ll be all right.” 

The Continental lobby is awash with busy activity and simmering panic. There are uncharacteristic flecks of dust on Charon’s glasses. “Mr. Wick.” 

“Brought Marcus,” John says. “You didn’t tell me not to.” 

“So I didn’t,” Charon nods. “The High Table would like to see you. Most of them flew in this morning.” 

“How long has Winston been missing?” 

“I started to grow concerned around four this morning. He’s been restless, so I took that into account. Still.” 

John thinks. “...Was he driving?” 

“Pardon?” Charon’s eyes take on another glint. An almost suspicious one. 

On the one hand, John wishes he hasn’t said anything. The memory of the day before seemed stolen from a life that wasn’t his. And there was something sad and human about Winston when he’d admitted to having a midlife crisis. The man could have very well have been joking, but somehow John doesn’t think so, and he doesn’t want to give any of that away. 

On the other hand, John isn’t brilliant at deductive reasoning, but he’s got a gut. It’s not a halfway bad one. Something, even if he can’t tell exactly _what_ yet, something’s wrong. 

“Yesterday was,” John begins. Forcing the rest of the words out is going to be painful. After another moment he decides to start over. “We drove around in his new car. I was with him until about six o’clock. He asked me for the keys.” 

Charon appraises John and John’s answer and John has the good sense to train his breathing and lower his blood pressure. 

“Do you have the make, model, and the plates of the vehicle?” Charon says, finally. 

“I do,” John says. He recites the necessary information for Charon and the concierge doesn’t write anything down. “I know someone in the NYPD. Maybe --” 

Charon cuts him off with a shake of his head. “The fact that I have this information is enough, Mr. Wick. Now go on, you don’t want to keep the High Table waiting.” 

Marcus touches his arm. “You going to be okay?” 

John shrugs him off and takes the stairs two at a time. 

The High Table are a sober bunch. They’ve all been some variant of criminal for so long that their collective seriousness reminds John of something two-dimensional and empty of any real meaning, drawn from the from the crude imaginations of certain action comics he’d liked reading as a kid. Charon has directed the group into one of the bigger conference rooms on the third floor. Refreshments in the form of coffee, tea, pastries, breakfast muffins, and toast with jam and butter have been provided. 

The spread sits untouched and John is suddenly reminded that he hasn’t had anything to eat, either. 

He stares at them, a discombobulated collection of heads, and they stare back. 

“You’re late, John,” says the Administrator. He’s got slicked hair, a smarmy smirk, and John fantasizes choking the guy with his tie, and not in a sexual way. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’m fine standing,” John doesn’t move. “Why are we all sitting here? Winston is _missing_. The Manager of the Continental flagship is missing. What the _fuck_. Excuse my French.” 

The Director speaks next. John has always liked her, and she in turn, has always turned a maternal sort of gaze towards him, at least, as much as she can manage. There’s a moment where John thinks that he’s given himself away, that he has said entirely too much. “The strays you pick up on the street are always the ones most loyal to you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Any other time, John would have duly impressed upon them that he isn’t a dog. Not even close. 

“We received this, about an hour ago.” The Arbiter says. He is sitting at the far end of the long conference table and stands. He is an extraordinarily tall man, tall enough to pull off a stoop and still look down at John from the tip of his nose. His hair is white enough to be translucent and he has a scar near the corner of his mouth that makes him look especially unsettling when he smiles.

Luckily, John doesn’t think the Arbiter smiles much. The other man hands him a black tablet connected to some kind of recorded feed. 

The quality isn’t the best. The room Winston is kept in is purposely dark, to obscure any identifiable feature about the room. But the figure tied to chair, a cheap rickety thing, is undeniably Winston. For a moment, John doesn’t breathe, because it doesn’t seem like Winston is breathing either, but then the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest allows John to exhale. There is a dark bruise imprinted on the side of his head, and John can’t tell if it’s fresh, but he thinks he can detect dry blood that has run from the wound.

“Has anyone traced this?” John asks, between gritted teeth. 

“Keep watching,” the Arbiter says. 

“Mr. Manager. What I want is very simple and if you think about it like a practical man, of no real detriment to you. Unless there is something else you’d like to tell me.” The voice that sounds is a tinny, distorted nothing and nothing can be gleaned from it. Not even an accent. John has become somewhat proficient at accents since sometimes it’s how you know you’re amongst friend or foe. 

“It’s not a matter of what you want,” Winston says. Every word is labored, and every syllable constricts John’s chest and thins his blood. “It’s a matter of propriety and I will say it again, I _cannot_.” 

“Is that your final word, Mr. Manager?” 

Winston sighs, John clings to the sound, even through the static. “It is. Until John Wick does something to warrant my declaring him _excommunicado_ , my hands are tied.” 

The pun lifts John’s heart, only a little. But then the voice says, “I will ask you again in forty-eight hours. Maybe with bits of you missing here and there, you will be more inclined to cooperate.” 

The feed goes dead. 

John isn’t aware of how hard he’s gripping the tablet until the protective glass nearly cracks and the Arbiter rescues the screen from John’s grasp. 

“John,” the Director says, her voice kinder now. “We thought you should know.” 

“And what are the rules associated with kidnapping the Manager of the Continental?” John bites out, “What are the principles? This is clear violation of --” 

“Of nothing,” the Administrator says and now John really wants to kill him. “Winston was not kidnapped pursuant to an erroneous Contract made in bad faith or as far as we can tell, on Continental grounds. We are not obliged to protect a single man from the city of New York.” 

It feels familiar and good to reach for his gun; it takes John less than ten seconds to cross the room behind the Administrator and stick the barrel against his shiny hair. “...And if I shoot you?” 

“I really wouldn’t do that,” the Administrator says, but his voice sounds thin. 

“John,” the Director‘s eyes have grown very wide. “We understand that this is an unusual situation, but we implore you to keep a cool head. We don’t even have any guarantee that your _excommunicado_ will ensure Winston’s safe return.” 

“Then fucking _get some_ ,” John snarls. “What the hell kind of operation are you running, anyway? Is this the best criminal network in the world or Congress?” He digs the gun into the Administrator’s scalp one last time for good measure. Technically, John has not fired any shots so he hasn’t broken any rules. He is suddenly conscious of that. 

“I’m taking this with me,” he walks a few steps and snatches the tablet out of the Arbiter’s hands again. 

“That’s not --” 

“Fuck your rules,” John storms out of the conference room to a stunned silence. 

“John, hey _John_.” 

John can only hear whistling in his ears; it is not after a little while that it gets through to him that someone’s calling his name. He turns, to see Marcus striding up to him. Marcus is a little short of breath. “What happened in there?” 

John forces himself to exhale, “...It’s my fault.” 

“What?” 

“Winston going missing is my fucking _fault_.” 

Marcus takes him in with a gaze, and then fishes out his cigarette case and a lighter. He lights John one and sticks it in his mouth. “I am not sure I follow. Also, breathe.” 

The nicotine settles some of the buzzing in his system, but still John doesn’t feel any better. Of course he doesn’t. He finishes the cigarette in record time and finds that half of his panic stems from the fact that he has no place to go. He is no stranger to going on the run, holding out until the storm passes, but the bastion of the Continental seems to have fallen away in the last twenty minutes and John _has nowhere to go_. There’s Viggo, Detroit, but he isn’t even thinking about that. 

“Talk to me,” Marcus says. “When you do that lone wolf thing you do that’s when you get killed.” 

“And when I let people in they get kidnapped and tortured, Marcus I.” John sucks in a breath, chasing the last of the ashen taste of the cigarette at the roof of his mouth. “...Take me someplace. I can’t think of anywhere to go. I don’t think I have anywhere.” 

Marcus thinks, seems to come to a decision. “Okay. Come on.” 

They end up in aptly named Valhalla, New York, a sleepy hamlet in Westchester. John hasn’t thought so keenly and profoundly of hours ticking past since he’d left hooking, but every hour that passes now is precious and wasted like water flowing into the sewage system never to be seen again. 

But he doesn’t rush Marcus or ask any questions because Marcus is possibly the only man left in this city who knows him for who he is and won’t try to kill him for it. He even appreciates that Marcus has procured a Velvet Underground & Nico CD from somewhere and allows John to play tracks on repeat. The soft guitar and Nico’s mannish voice nearly lulls him to sleep. It’s also been a long time since John has slept. 

“...We’re here,” Marcus says, stalling the car into park. They are on a suburban block and John can’t see anything of note but houses, one after the other. There’s a kid riding a bike on the sidewalk across the road. 

“The fuck?” 

“You said you were out of ideas,” Marcus reminds him. “Let me try. Shut up and come with me.” 

John acknowledges Marcus’s point and follows at a respectable distance as Marcus goes up to a house. The house itself is also unremarkable. It’s a bungalow with a neatly kept yard and there’s a cactus and a welcome mat. He knocks on the door. 

The door opens after a moment, revealing a sandy-haired girl with fair, freckled skin and her face seems to light up when she sees Marcus. “ _Dad_. Gran’s making lunch. She’s going to ticked that you didn’t call ahead.” She lopes her father -- at least John thinks it’s her father, like Marcus has had a dalliance that left some sperm somewhere, rather than an ongoing sexual fetish -- into a hug and then she spots John hanging back. 

“Dad,” she says. “Is that _John Wick_.” 

“The one and only,” Marcus pats her on the head and cranes his neck in John’s direction, “Come on, don’t just stand there, John Wick.” 

And when John gets inside the house, things get even weirder. The house smells of some sort of meaty casserole and Marcus tells him he has to take off his shoes, “ -- Mother’s rather particular.” 

John says, “Um.” 

“Sylvia, I thought I heard --” A woman comes out of the kitchen. Her hair is tightly pulled back into a bun and she could have been fifty or seventy or simply immortal. Looking at her, John cottons on to what links Marcus with these women. They have the same eyes: sharp, ocean-green and alive. 

“Hello Mother,” Marcus says. He steps up to his mother (also not a sexual thing, John doesn’t think) and kisses her on the temple. “I’ve brought a refugee. It’s a bit complicated.” 

“Hello, John Wick,” the woman turns her gaze towards him. It’s neither friendly nor questioning. It just _is_ , and John finally feels like he can breathe again. “I wish I knew you were coming. Would have made something better than leftover casserole. Have a seat.” To the girl, the woman makes a shooing gesture, “Sylvia, fetch him something to drink, he looks like he needs it.” 

Assassins with family is sort of a mythical chimaera in the business of crime. You’re never really sure they exist because other legends, sexier, more bombastic and attractive, take precedent. A single assassin with family without a clan behind him to back up the provenance of his blood, is not so much an asset as he is a liability. 

But John has heard of Augusta Haze and that one time or several she wreaked havoc on various parts of North Africa as late as the early 2000s when John was doing his first jobs and learning the ropes of the trade. He’s never heard of Sylvia Haze, but Sylvia is just starting out. Small local jobs done arranged through escrow. She rather enjoys it, but looks forward to bigger and better things. 

“Dad says he’s going to introduce me to the cartel.” Sylvia says cheerily. She turns her bright eyes towards John, “I can’t believe John Wick is in our house.” 

“Am I really that big of a deal?” John asks. He’s eaten some of Augusta’s casserole, drank gin and tonic, which he hates, but Augusta had said that was the only thing worth drinking in the house. 

Marcus chews and swallows casserole, “You like to show off. That does something to teenage girls. Makes them tingle or something.” 

“Dad, I’m _twenty_.” Sylvia pouts, “And gross.” 

“Are you?” 

There’s nothing to it, this easy banter. John has never witnessed anything close to a familial tableau before, and an uneasy feeling settles in his stomach again. 

Augusta spots John’s look and touches his arm, “Will you come with me? I’ll make you another gin and tonic.” 

“I don’t know Winston well. I knew of him, of course,” Augusta leads John into the study, The bungalow is exceedingly average but John spots some specially bound titles in Russian, French, Italian. It’s funny what sticks and lingers after the fact. Like John’s thinking in hours. “He came up after me. He once bought me a drink in Annaba. I enjoyed myself. He was no more than nineteen and already exquisitely charming. Imagine that.” 

John looks at her. 

“I’m seventy-five.” She supplies, with a quirk of her mouth. 

“Wow.” 

“Thanks,” Augusta smiles at him, Marcus-like. Or maybe John should amend his assessment and say that he likes the genealogy of Marcus and now more than ever, appreciates where he has come from. So many people come from nowhere. John too. She hands John his drink. John gets out his pills and sets to swallow two with the gin. 

Augusta touches his wrist, “Stitches? Internal bleeding?” 

“General pain everywhere.” John shrugs. “It’s not anything I’m not used to. But I, you know.” 

“Then I would advise you not take them,” she says. “Pain helps you remember. You will want to remember this. Its cost. The choices you’ll make.” 

“I’d like to be mobile,” John says. 

“When time comes. You will be. You will have no choice.” 

After coming out of the study with Augusta, John finds Marcus and Sylvia smoking in the backyard poring over the video on the tablet. 

“He must still be in the city,” Sylvia announces.

“Lots of places look like this,” Marcus reminds her. “For all we know they could have shipped him across the country.” 

She looks towards John, “How long has he been missing?” 

John doesn’t even have to think. “Nearly eleven hours.” 

“Anyway, that sort of bruise takes time,” Marcus says. “Besides, whoever this is, wants something else from Winston more than he wants to hurt him, properly.” 

“Or she,” Sylvia gives her father a reproving look. 

“Or she,” Marcus assents almost fondly and settles a hand on his daughter’s head. John doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. “You sure you _don’t_ want to become a hacker? They’re going to be better paid than us traditionalists in a couple of years. Safer too, probably.” 

“I like working with my hands,” she splays her fingers. John notes that her fingernails are painted lime green. “John.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Can I keep this? I have some friends.” 

“Contacts,” Marcus says.

She rolls her eyes. “Contacts. I have contacts but they think they are my friends. I won’t show them the feed.” 

“My kid is going to grow up to be a monster.” Marcus says as he starts up the car. 

“So she _is_ your kid.” 

“Yes, and that’s my real mother. None of it has to do with sex. Except, you know,” Marcus actually shudders. “...Do you feel better?” 

John nods. He’s still not really well-rested, but he is well-fed and thinks Augusta Haze should give herself more credit for her leftover casserole. But then again, John doesn’t know the first thing about homestyle cooking. 

“Then let’s get to work. Thirty-seven hours is plenty of time.” 

The pain comes back. A little bit at first, like a strange itch that curls itself around John’s marrow and then blooms into a small fire seemingly without end. But he doesn’t take his pills. 

“John,” Marcus squeezes his knee and nearly makes him jump. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” John opens his eyes, “Augusta says I should stop taking my pills and remember.” 

“My mother’s a masochist,” Marcus says. “You should listen to exactly half of what she tells you.” 

John stares at the clock on the dash as it tips over from a minute before three to three o’clock. “Why are you helping me?” 

“I like you,” Marcus doesn’t look at him. “And I am fortunate enough to have things in my life that not a lot of people do. In a way, I am lucky to share them with you and have you appreciate them too, John. Consider it my own selfishness.” 

Without thinking, John says, “Winston likes me.” And when John says these words it all makes sense. “Marcus, Winston likes me.” 

Now Marcus looks at him a bit sideways.“You sound shocked. Was that ever in question?” 

“No,” John breathes out heavily. He can’t figure out if he’s happy about it or not. 

Now that John has figured it out; now that pain has given him clarity of vision and mind, he knows what to do. He has Marcus drop him off at the police station a block off because Marcus dislikes the police. John doesn’t blame him. He strides in and asks for Jimmy O’Hare and when Jimmy sees him, the man’s eyebrows shoot all the way up. 

“John.” 

John and Jimmy are friendly and friends the odd way that beat cops and well-known hookers turned assassins sometimes are. Jimmy has traditionally turned a blind eye to John’s voracious tastes and John, in turn, has sometimes gotten rid of obstacles (read: people) in Jimmy’s way for a price of a few drinks at a dive bar in Queens. As a result, Jimmy has risen through the ranks of the NYPD at an astronomical rate and in the span of less than a decade, Jimmy has made lieutenant. When he and John have the occasion to see each other, Jimmy complains about having to wear a tie. 

“Hi,” John says. “Sorry to barge in. I just wanted to ask you something.” 

“Sure,” Jimmy says, and waves him back through to his office. “But first let me get you some coffee. You look like you’re about to faint.” 

“...Are you sure?” 

Weighing Marcus’s advice about his mother being a masochist and Augusta’s advice about never remembering, John pops two pills with the god-awful coffee Jimmy makes him and vows this time to remember. 

“The car wasn’t stolen, or anything. But it is...in pretty bad shape.” Jimmy’s eyes search his. “Anything I should know? Turf war? New player in town?” 

“It’s worse than that,” John says, and means it. “...Did you salvage anything else from the car?” 

“Jesus,” Jimmy whistles through his teeth. “Some things. Doubt it’s going to be any help. I can have things sent up from Evidence. They think kids did it. So everybody’s got better things to do.” 

“Kids did do it,” John says. He stares at Jimmy a long time before the man sighs and picks up the phone. 

It’s funny how things really aren’t all that fruitful once you know to expect them. John shifts through stuff, mostly charred bits of upholstery and finds what he is looking for. And then he calls a number that he doesn’t like calling, but this constitutes as an emergency. 

John names a strip bar in the Bronx because he is still conscious that he’s putting on a show. The drinks are too pricey but it’s been a long time since he has noticed what anything costs. The club also boasts live Sundarban tigers that are a clear violation of health and safety. He finishes stuffing a twenty dollar bill in some poor woman’s g-string and hopes she buys herself a nice meal rather than nice coke. But John knows that everyone has to be left to make their own choices. 

God knows, John could probably stand to make better choices all around. But he hasn’t. 

Santino D’Antonio walks in with a goon. When he spots John, Santino turns and says something to the big guy behind him and the goon is notably unhappy, judging by the stiffening of his spine. But at length, Santino extracts himself from his escort and comes to sit by John alone. 

“So you call me, and not my sister,” Santino smiles at him, all teeth and ambition. 

“I’m not on the High Table’s good side right now,” John says. “I make good decisions sometimes.” 

“That is a generous estimate of yourself,” Santino laughs. “How did you know I would be in New York?” 

“You’re the High Table’s number one roadie,” John says, telling nothing but the truth. “Where else would you be?” 

“I thought you wanted my help.” Santino seems to be in a good mood; maybe he got laid recently. Maybe John would do well not to waste this boon. 

John grabs two glasses of wine off of a passing tray and makes a note to leave another twenty for the waitress. “I did. I do. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Or no, that’s not quite right. I thought we could help each other.” 

John and Santino D’Antonio are complicated. John and anybody is complicated, but he thinks his five-year dilliance with Santino deserves a special mention. It begins in Tuscany, where John had accidentally saved Santino’s life, and then he’d refused to work for the D’Antonios because he’d wanted to stay in New York. Soon after, due to circumstances entirely out of John’s control (at least, that is the story he’s still sticking with), he’d gone to bed with Santino a few times; and then, following an incident with a pair of handcuffs and an elevator, Santino had taken out a contract on John worth five million. John survives, the once lovely city of Venice not so much. 

Finally, Gianna D’Antonio, who clearly has a monopoly on sense in the family made her brother call off the contract. She then tells John to never set foot in Italy again. He distracts her brother too much. Moreover, every time John visits _bella Italia_ , the D’Antonio vineyards produce soured wine like a sign of bad luck. 

“I’m listening.” 

John takes something out of pocket, still wrapped in a plastic bag and Santino’s eyes widen, “Is that.” 

“That was what I hope you could confirm for me. I know it’s not in a great shape.” 

“How?” 

“You might not have a seat at the Table, but you’re still a D’Antonio,” John reminds him. “Or is that Gianna’s man babysitting you outside?” 

“You’re lucky I like being abused by you.” Santino takes a sip of wine and makes a face. “Because this is dreck.” 

“This is the only place I could think of,” John shrugs. “Sorry.” 

“You’re not. And the hell it isn’t.” 

“No,” John smiles.

“Giuseppe’s neither my man nor my sister’s,” Santino tells him. “He’s just Catholic. He’s God’s man.” 

“How does that work?” 

“The same as any other vice. You have plenty, John, but you might call yours hangups. Giuseppe goes to confession a lot, and he’s happy with himself.” Santino tucks the bag neatly inside of his jacket. “Anything else?” 

“That’s it,” John shrugs. He tries a bit of his wine; it is indeed awful, but he tries not to make a face. “All I can say is that I can create a vacancy for you. I have to, and I will. But what you do with that information is --” 

“You don’t need to convince me,” Santino says shortly. “If that is indeed what you’re doing. _Ciao_ , John. I know you’re on a bit of a clock. I’ll try my best.” 

“You’re _sure_ ,” Marcus says. His frown deepens every line on his face and John is suddenly struck with the reality that everyone around him is old. Human. “John, that’s crazy. You don’t even have any damn proof.” 

“Santino will get me my proof,” John says. 

“Wasn’t aware you still talked to him,” Marcus’s mouth lifts, “After Venice.” 

“I’m persuasive and it’s not like I went in empty-handed,” John sighs. “Equivalent exchange and all that.” 

“That is a very Winston thing to say,” Marcus muses and then stops himself. “Should I have said that?” 

“I’m too tired to pick a fight with you,” John says, telling the truth. He is lounging on Marcus’s settee and waiting. John isn’t the best at waiting. “And I need to save my strength.” 

“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say in ten hours,” Marcus laughs, but the sound is airless. “So long as you’re being sensible, maybe you could take a shower. You stink.” 

Marcus jumps him in the shower. John doesn’t know if the act was premeditated or something else more fuck-it last minute. 

Marcus doesn’t particularly seem like a fuck-it kind of guy, but John has been known to be a bad influence on people, sometimes. Nevertheless, it’s good to not think for a little while, following the line of his body; following the line of Marcus’s body. John has a flash of a nearly horrifying amalgamation of both Augusta and Sylvia Haze in the heat of the moment, but he still manages to finish. 

Semen circles the drain and John gingerly touches his shoulder; he hadn’t noticed. “You bit me.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Marcus says. He steps out of the cubicle first and helps himself to a freshly laundered towel. John can still smell the oddly misplaced scent of detergent. “...Towel?” 

It’s five in the morning and John’s phone rings. He thinks he hears another set of vibrations from somewhere but he can’t be sure. 

“Yeah.” 

“You were right,” Santino’s voice comes through. He sounds remarkably awake, “But regrettably, I don’t have any other information for you. I’m on a plane back to Italy right now. Got things to settle, for myself.” 

“I’m all right alone,” John says. “Good luck.” 

“You too.” 

Santino hangs up first and John exhales loudly. His blood is boiling, but his limbs are still waking up. It’s a strange feeling. Then he goes, checks his things, and puts on his shoes. 

“Even if you’ve gotten your proof,” Marcus’s voice says behind him. “You’re never going to find him. The city’s a maze.” 

“And your point is what?” 

“Sylvia called. She managed to get you an address through tracing the IP through five proxies.” 

“And the address is?” John says, agitated and itching to get going. 

“You don’t get to do that,” Marcus turns out to be already dressed and he has a familiar duffel slung over his shoulder. “I’m driving.” 

“You don’t have to do this,” John says, even though it won’t work. It never has in the past, anyway. 

Marcus shrugs and pushes past John to open the front door, “We can argue about this in the car. The last thing we want is for Winston to start missing fingers and toes.” 

They drive in silence. John keeps clenching and unclenching his fists. The silence gets louder and louder and when Marcus idles the car near a block of abandoned factories, John knows that this is it. 

“There’s probably still some room for diplomacy,” Marcus says. 

“Fuck you,” John shoots back tonelessly. 

“Worth checking,” Marcus gets out of the car and grabs his duffel. “Don’t die.” 

The silence is heavy and present and lasts about a minute. Then that minute snaps as the first bullet whizzes past John’s ear and he starts running. He starts moving; he starts _surviving_ and these things trying to kill him with everything they have -- fists, knives, metal crowbars -- aren’t men so much as already dead objects in his way. Event horizons each passing him by. 

Someone both very stupid and very lucky, manages to stab him in the back of his left thigh. John, aided by the heady nothingness of his tranquilizers, kicks the man in the teeth and takes great pleasure in crushing the man’s vocal chords with the heel of his shoe. Not as showy as the pencil, but it does the job. 

John has to duck into a crevice between buildings to reload and someone else nearly gets the jump on him, wanting to shove a twisted blade above his collarbone, the guy just explodes. The ends of John’s hair feels singed. 

A rocket launcher is certainly one way to make a statement. Clearly there is more than one showoff around. He makes a note to tease Marcus about it mercilessly later. The guy deserves it. 

John looks up. The sky is growing light. It’s almost over. 

By the time John fights his way to where Winston is, he’s fucking _tired_. He is so tired he is almost beginning to feel pain at the edge of his nerves and he takes a few seconds to choke down some more tranquilizers. It’s time well spent. 

“ -- Winston. Winston, wake up. Don’t you fucking die on me.” 

“I’m not missing any limbs,” Winston mumbles and John hurts everywhere. “I still have all my fingers and toes.” 

A slow, weighted series of claps starts bouncing off the concrete of the room and John sees exactly who he expects to see. 

In a certain light, the Administrator looks like someone John used to know. He’s not nearly as well dressed this time, or as smug, and all John can see is an angry bundle of things that can never be said. Consonants wound up in muscle and skin and an unkind reality. They could have left each other alone. That’s what makes this worse. 

“Oops,” says the Administrator, baring his teeth like something rabid. “It took you long enough.” 

“I knew I hated you for a reason,” John says. He touches a hand to Winston’s cheek and it seems that the man has fainted. John has never had a long memory, and now he hates himself for it. He straightens up again, willing himself to take up room. 

“Surprised?” 

“No, maybe not. You were always jealous of me.” 

“You put me in prison, John Wick. And no one came for me. No one liked me.” 

The bright LED lights have come on in the room, nearly blinding John, but maybe that’s the point. He holds his gun steady, but he is aware too, of all the other guns pointed his way. There is the mildest of chances that Santino might have sent stragglers to back him up; but of course he doesn’t, and John wonders why he has ever thought that.

“What was your name?” 

“You don’t even remember my name,” the Administrator snarls, with his wild, animal eyes. “Do you? I’ll fucking make you remember.” 

“Sorry,” John says, willing soured levity to barricade the whole of his voice, “What can I say. I’m better with faces. When they’re worth remembering.” 

“I’m glad you said that. What a sensible thing to say.” 

John feels another presence at his elbow; it’s Marcus, _sans_ rocket launcher and rather beat up. He is shoved onto his knees like a common, mortal man by a man in a mask. 

“Hey, John.” 

The bite mark on John’s shoulder, faded but ever present, starts hurting. It hurts for the future. It will always hurt. “Sorry,” he forces out. He means it, this time. 

Marcus says, “What are you talking about? Next time, I’ll leave the showing off to you. Promise.” And then a shot goes off. 

John screams, a wounded hollow sound, like he was never human to begin with. 

Winston is unconscious for two days. The doctor checks Winston’s feeding drip every three hours and advises John to get some sleep. John naps in the chair next to Winston’s bed in a room that isn’t the penthouse and leaves his post only to use the bathroom. Housekeeping sends him sandwiches full of nice cold cuts and fresh cheese, sometimes even soup, but no alcohol. 

“ -- John?” 

“Winston. Wednesday,” John breathes out. “Thank fuck.” 

After that, it’s a flurry of activity. The doctor first, to make sure that Winston’s heart hasn’t died on him when he’s just woken up; then Charon, who kicks John out of the room to talk business with the Manager of the Continental. When Charon leaves the room to find John still fretting in the hallway, he bows and holds the position for a long time. 

“You’re freaking me out,” John says. “Seriously.” 

“The Manager would like to see you now, Mr. Wick,” says Charon. Then he disappears into the elevator. John settles his hand on the doorknob to Winston’s room and nearly loses his courage. 

But John is an assassin, and even before that, a hooker. Which means he does things that other people aren’t willing to do. He goes, armed with this knowledge and lays his head down against Winston’s chest. Feeling the man breathe is a joy. 

Winston’s hand threads through John’s hair, “Do you remember who he is?” 

“I haven’t the slightest,” John says, burrowing his nose into Winston to memorize his scent as much as possible. Even though the man smells now, strongly of antiseptic,“I’ve been trying to remember. But I _can’t_.” 

“Shall I tell you?” Winston says. 

John shuts his eyes. “No. No, a fucker like that isn’t worth my time.” 

“I’ll still have to declare you _excommunicado_ ,” Winston says. His face twists, as if this knowledge is physically painful on top of all his other injuries. “You have killed a member of the High Table. Not to mention several other high ranking players, all of them with their own connections. Everyone will be wanting a piece of you. Even within the grounds of the Continental, I doubt you’d be safe, Jonathan. And.”

“...And?”

“I’m in no state to go to war,” Winston says, with a pointed glance towards the drip in his arm. “I’m an old man now.” John suspects that this is as much of an apology as he’s ever going to get. 

It’s almost uncanny. John likes the word uncanny. One who is lost and forgotten within the places most familiar to him. “You’ve said that to me before. _Prison is not safe for you_.” Maybe Winston has always known something John doesn’t and just gave him some borrowed time because it’d been within his gift. 

And because Winston likes him. 

Maybe his gift has run out. John would willingly burn the world down for Winston, but then he’s never had anything to lose, except for his life and his soul and those are but small, tiny things. 

Winston, on the other hand, is of a primordial order, and perhaps isn’t able to make the choice that John wants him to. 

That’s fine, too. Or, it will be. 

“I don’t have the energy to hit you right now,” Winston says. He splays his fingers across John’s jaw. “I can give you one hour. One hour to do what you’d like. And then you must disappear.” 

“One hour,” John counts the seconds and tucks them away in his veins. “I used to be able to do a lot in one hour. I’ll take it.” 

It’s impossible to cram seven years into one measly hour. But John tries. He, as Winston would say, “gives it a good go.” John is mindful of Winston’s wounds and his fragile humanity. He removes Winston’s drip and wheels the equipment to the other side of the room and makes a note to himself to put them back, later. 

John undresses Winston, even taking off his socks, and is doubly glad to relearn that the man has all his extremities attached. After, John presses his fingers against the telling knobs of the man’s spine and then slides into his jagged edges with his tongue. Winston makes a noise and John digs into him because he wants to hear it again. He wants to remember. More than, he wants to know that some part of him will remain on Winston’s body after he’s gone from here. 

He kisses Winston’s earlobe and then every bit of skin he can manage to find. Then Winston says, “Let me see you.” 

John is loathed to waste any time. He is also ashamed to be seen, but that’s not something he can put into words. “I don’t deserve it.” That’s what he says; it’s easier and close enough to the truth. 

Winston’s fingers, all five of them, clamp around John’s wrist. The man is surprisingly strong, “I’ve let you stick your tongue in my arse, John. Now do as I say.” 

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I was doing it.” John easily transfers that grip from his wrist to his cock (in his head) and his dick enjoys the image so much that he nearly comes right then, but he holds the line. He holds still. There’s more to be had; even if the hour bleeds profusely at the back of his mind like a wound. 

A shiver of ragged laughter passes through Winston’s body and John clings to it, along with the taste of Winston everywhere in his mouth. “I enjoyed it. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

But John does what he is told, it was always going to be a matter of time, though he is conscious he doesn’t have much of it left. He rolls over next to Winston on the bed and tucks his thumb under the man’s chin. “I’m here.” 

Winston leans forward and they kiss. Slowly, languidly, like they’re trying to unspool time and hold it in place. And then they do it again, and all of the air gets sucked out of John’s lungs. Then, John doesn’t break contact as he brings their bodies together, nudging Winston’s knees apart and being mindful of his injuries. When John is finally inside of Winston, who is tight and secret and lovely, Winston makes a sound against his shoulder.

“Are you in pain anywhere? Am I hurting you?” 

“Your penchant for priority never ceases to astound me, Jonathan,” Winston says. Maybe the bruise on the side of his head is making him lopsided. 

John pushes into him, drawing out a sound, somewhere between a whine and a sigh, that he has never heard Winston make before. John imprints that sound onto his body and rolls his hips again, this time with more purpose. He wants to wring the man dry. He wants what Winston wants; he wants nothing more than to steal back the fire that was taken from deep inside of him. 

John makes short work of his shower, mindful of the time. Then he helps Winston back into his clothes. Despite Winston’s protests, John re-installs the drip. Then he fetches air freshener from the bathroom and he can feel Winston’s judging gaze on his back. 

“...What? You run a respected establishment, Mr. Manager, and I’m just doing my part. I take back what I said about the cult. And I guess I’m sorry about your car.” The room reeks of sex. For the first time in a long time, John is conscious of how it smells and he dislikes it. 

“That can wait two minutes,” Winston says. “Come here, John.” 

They kiss. John hates that they haven’t been doing it for the past seven years, but then he is not sure that making a habit of something like this -- whatever this is -- would make things better or worse. 

“Go somewhere with sunshine,” Winston says. “Will you promise?” 

“If that is what you want.” John nods.

Charon gives him keys to a new car, two passports, and the account number to one of those banks in Zurich. He assures John that the funds are more than proficient and can never be traced. He also hands John a dark square box for another kind of emergency. 

John takes it but he doesn’t look at it. 

“I can take care of myself,” John says, as a form of token resistance. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

“The Manager likes to take care of you; that remains his prerogative,” Charon returns. Whether there is any irony in that statement, John can’t tell. “He is afraid that you will find normal life jarring and wants to afford you every advantage. Good-bye, Mr. Wick.” 

His hour is up, but John thinks he has managed to buy more time. He goes to a certain address in Valhalla because even though he hasn’t any right, it’s the right thing to do. 

Augusta Haze meets him at the door; she doesn’t insult John by saying he looks terrible. “How much time do you have?” 

“At this point, it’s probably all borrowed and not mine. I’ll leave in a minute. I just want to.” John drops his eyes, “If you’ll let me. I’m.” Suddenly, it’s like his mouth has filled with cotton. 

“Come on, quickly.” Augusta shuts the door behind him after John has stepped inside. “Don’t bother about your shoes.” 

John finds Sylvia in her bedroom, her eyes glazed and vacant, “Now I’ll never get to work for the cartel. I don’t suppose you can get me in good with the Russians.” She laughs, falling apart at the seams, although her bones will hold. She is just as strong as her father and her grandmother and will have a good life. 

Although he has no right, John puts his arms around her and he thinks she’s just blown her nose in his crisply pressed shirt. _Sorry_ gets stuck in his throat and stays there. Which is just as well.

“You don’t want to work for the Russians. Trust me.” 

“I just need a minute,” Sylvia mumbles. “Sorry about your shirt.” 

“I only have about a minute,” John says and tightens his grip, “I have other shirts.” 

Then John Wick steps away from the house in Valhalla and disappears.


End file.
